Like Oxygen
by lithle
Summary: After years of dissociating himself from the other Gundam Pilots and trying to forget the war, Duo agrees to partner with Wufei on a mission. Back in the lifestyle he's been trying to escape Duo must face the one thing he can't run from: himself. 2x5.
1. Chapter 1

Authors Note: This fic is not part of the SQHFRGP continuality. Nor does my writing it indicate that I'm abandoning SQ. Indeed, SQ is my primary project, this was originally meant to be a little ficlet before it got away from me. Now it's the start of a new series. Go figure. I wanted to try my hand at writing a 'mission' fic, so here we go.

Timeline: Five years post war, no EW.

Pairings: 2x5

Warnings: Language

The politicians talk about cultural integration like it's already a reality. As if every colony is every other colony. They want to believe that, believe there's no difference between a guy from earth and a guy from L2, like me. But then, that's what they do, try to make everything uniform and neat. Even when they try to get specific, they don't see people, just categories.

They see me, and if they know what they're looking at, all they think is 'Gundam pilot'. As if I'm interchangeable with Quatre, Heero, Wufei, Trowa. As if we have anything in common besides a talent for mayhem. As if it made sense to ask me to sign up for their little police force and play the good soldier. And man, were they surprised when I walked away from that job. Couldn't take it, they wrap you up in red tape until you can hardly breathe.

Lie, there.

It wasn't the job. The rules weren't so bad. They were something to break when I needed the outlet. It was the others. It was looking at them and seeing everything that had happened. We'd made a peace and I wanted it. Wanted to think about anything but war.

Five years now I've been working for Howard and that's a sort of peace. You can forget in space. Nothing touches you unless you let it; no one can find you unless you tell them where to look. After so much time, I couldn't tell you what the others were up too. Probably couldn't even pick them out from a lineup.

Lie, there.

I see Heero, sometimes. He's on the news, standing at Relena's side. They look happy together. Or, she looks happy. He looks like Heero. Of course, the trashy news shows tell another story: he's soliciting prostitutes; she's having an affair with Dorothy. Quatre's on camera too. No scandals there. Just ribbon cuttings at hospitals for war orphans and the like. It's always something adorable and sad: blind horses, endangered butterflies, three legged kittens.

And that should have been as close as my old life ever came to touching me. It had been, until Une tracked me down. Now I'm sitting in a restaurant on one of the smaller colonies. I'm waiting for my contact and I'm thinking about cultural integration. Everyone around me is speaking Mandarin. The signs are written in it. And there isn't a blond or a red head in sight. I'm thinking the politicians ought to get out to the colonies more. Maybe they'd figure out why it's so difficult to apply one set of laws to all of them.

The waitress is just setting down my food when Wufei walks in. He's taller, a little broader, and he's let his hair grow. But I recognize him right off. Yeah, I said we're not the same, but you can't miss a Gundam pilot. He walks in and suddenly I'm smelling smoke. I'm tasting blood. I'm watching the sky burn. The sick part is how good it feels.

Fuck. I close my eyes and breathe until it passes. When I open them again, he's sitting across from me. I look at him and all I can feel is the tightness in my chest as the air gets thinner and thinner. Suffocation. What a stupid way to die.

"And then the others jump out and yell surprise?" I ask.

"Just me, Maxwell." His Mandarin is flawless, where mine is rough and forced, even to my own ears. From the looks of it, he's ready to settle in, but I'm already getting up. I didn't come for a reunion and there's gotta be somewhere else to eat. "Maxwell?"

"Listen," I say, as I shrug my jacket back on. "I don't do this sort of shit anymore. I came here as a favor. Une asked, and she saw us alright after the war. If you're here, I don't need to be. You can handle it."

I figure that should appeal to his arrogance. When I knew him, he liked to work alone, and I liked to let him. He always had this intensity that made getting too close seem like a bad idea. His control had always made me think of those really scary looking boxes they keep explosives in. Like there was something inside him that even he knew was dangerous.

He watches me go, doesn't reach out or say a word. He's so quiet about it I stop. I look at him and realize that I haven't been seeing him. I've been looking at memories. The Wufei of the here and now looks more tired than withdrawn. His expression is more appraising than it is disapproving.

"You've changed," I say, counting out a tip. I don't know. We almost died together once. I feel like he deserves a little small talk.

"You too." He reaches into his pocket, opens his hand to reveal a slim sleeve of metal about the size of a bullet. A data drive. "But not as much as you want to believe." He flicks the thing into the air, sending it toward my face in a tight little spiral. It's in my hand before I can think.

"I'm leaving," I tell him.

He relaxes, his posture easing so suddenly the change can only deliberate. "This is a nice restaurant. I would think they would have a lot of repeat business."

"Bye, Wufei."

He smiles for the first time. It's a thin, sharp expression like the edge of a blade. "Goodbye, Maxwell."

Outside the scent of flowers masks the more metallic smell of recycled colony air. It's set to spring here. Everything is blooming. I inhale as deeply as I can, telling myself the air isn't thinning. Dying in a locked room is different from dying at the controls of a Gundam. You can't fight air.

I wonder if he even remembers. Who does he see when he looks at me? 02 with his long braid and roman collar? I touch my hair, shorn to nothing now. I've shed that identity like an old skin. Kept the name and called that enough of a cross to bear. Five years makes Wufei and me strangers.

Lie, there.

The five of us have always been strangers. The politicians forget it. Even I forget it. But we weren't raised together on some secret base. We weren't a team. We certainly weren't friends. So Wufei tosses me a data drive and smiles like a knife. I don't owe him anything. All I need to do to get out of this is check out of my hotel, fly back to the ship, and forget that Une ever contacted me. All I need to do is drop the data drive, its cold weight still held in my fist. All I need to do is breathe and remember the air isn't thinning.

All I ever need to do is forget.

I toss the drive into the air. Catch it. Wonder if it's as easy to piss Wufei off as it used to be. I figure I'll be finding out, soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: So, this bit took me awhile. My ability to write in a style like this seems to ebb and flow. I know this is a bit different from my other pieces but I hope you're enjoying it.

Pairings: 2x5

Warnings: Language

People are funny. Not funny like laughter, funny like fucked the hell up. So eventually you learn to laugh at the fucked-upness, or you're, well, fucked. Here's the thing. Imagine a movie. Guy kills a dozen faceless people. Maybe he has a reason, or think he does. The people watching the movie they'll think he's a bad man. Sure. But if he's charming enough, they'll still sort of root for him. Now have that same guy kill a puppy on screen. Just like that, everyone'll hate him. No one likes a puppy killer.

Anyway, the point. I'm going through the data drive Wufei gave me. I'm looking at numbers. Scary numbers, sure. Missing weapons shipments, disappearing ex-military personnel. And I should care. I really should. It's the sort of thing the Preventers drive themselves crazy over, the stuff they wanted me to go crazy over when I still worked for them. Instead, I'm just about to throw the damn thing out and forget about it like I should have done in the first place. Then I get to the last file. And it's nothing. Just a blurry photograph. Really blurry, actually. Could be anybody, blurry. Except, mostly who it could be is Treize Khushrenada talking to none other than our very own Lady Une. And that wouldn't matter, since there's plenty of war era photographs of the two of them together. But they're standing in front of a building that didn't exist until after the war ended.

One amateur photograph, after all those numbers and suddenly I care. You see what I'm talking about? It's got to be personal or people don't get involved. There's got to be a dead puppy. And a photo of Treize and Une having a nice lunchtime chat? Well that's just about the deadest puppy I've ever seen. Une's okay, she did right by us. But Treize's Une, well, she's an entirely different woman. And in her own way, she's as dead as Treize. I couldn't tell you why two dead people were meeting for coffee, but I was sure as hell curious.

So I sleep, but not so you'd notice. Dreams take all the fun out of sleep. There's nightmares sure, and those are rough. But it's the other dreams that get me: burning skies, Deathscythe's controls at my finger tips, mechs dissolving into dust. You know, the good ones. I don't think it's sick, killing people. You do what you have to. We did what we had to. It's just sick to miss it.

I'm so fucking sick.

Wake up feeling fresh, bright, and a little like shooting my damn brains out. So, normal morning, really. The woman at the desk doesn't like that I'm checking out early. Howard likes it even less when I tell him I'll be back late. He doesn't think I should take the assignment. I don't either, but neither of us are gonna do anything about it, so we skip the argument. He tells me to be careful and I don't know what he means. I don't think he does either.

The colony feels strange, after so much time in the ship. It's the same strange that Earth feels after too much time on a colony. I feel small, mostly. Like instead of the environment growing, I've just shrunk down to a size that makes it seem like it has. Follow that logic and I feel biggest when I'm in my Gundam, where there's space for no one but me.

God, I wish I was lying.

Wufei's not at the restaurant when I get there. I take a corner booth and kill time tracing the fake wood-grain of the plastic table. The waitress is friendly and attentive, she makes faces at my accent and leans over a little further than necessary when she sets down my food. I ask her to marry me and I think I mean it. We could run away together, she'd teach me better Mandarin, I'd teach her to shoot. We'd have little dark eyed babies who screamed and laughed and took up so much space in my head I'd have no room left for memory.

She tells me she could never marry a foreigner and won't listen when I try and explain we're all one big happy family now.

And we are. After all, family is all about blood, and we spilled enough of it to make everyone related.

"Maxwell." Wufei interrupts just as I've about convinced the waitress to sit down and at least hear me out. He takes the seat I've been offering her and sends her away with his order. If he's aware he's no longer invited to the wedding, he doesn't show it. He just looks at me and I look at him and I think, fine, this is great, let's do this. I can do this.

"You've got the wrong guy." I tell him, because it seems so rude to leave him waiting. "I'm invisible. You want the chameleon."

"He's missing. Has been since shortly after this was brought to our attention." There's irritation there, and that's fine. But he's worried, too. And that's new. Worry is a Quatre word. "We suspect he might have taken the initiative."

"That or he's joined the club."

"The possibility has been discussed," he says, as the waitress comes back with his food. She's still smiling, but I've stopped.

"How does any of this work? I mean she asks you to look into the possibility she's fucked us all over?"

"Given her previous instability, she's prepared to consider it."

"Why not have the Boy Scouts deal with it?" But I already know the answer. The Preventers are Une's. If Une, or some of Une, is corrupt, so is the organization.

"She's too inspiring for that." He replies, and that's either the understatement of the year or it's just more vague 'we're in public' BS.

"We should go back to my hotel." I tell him, standing. As much as I want to marry the waitress, I want to figure out what's going on even more.

If leaving in the middle of his meal bothers him, he doesn't show it. He just counts out a tip. He's a good tipper. Somehow, that's not something I expected.

"I've got a shuttle waiting." He tells me.

"What if I didn't agree?" I ask, but knowing what was in the drive, it's not surprising that he was expecting me to go along with it like a good little dog.

We walk along the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder. No one gets in our way; people seem to find reasons not to stand to near us. Usually, I can make it through a crowd without anyone taking notice. But it takes focus to lock down all the signs and my mind is on other things. Wufei's watching them too, with the tired, uneasy expression that I'm starting to think of as his norm. He's even trying, but he's not like me. He doesn't know how to disappear and I think it bothers him.

"Hey," I say, which seems like a good start until he turns to me and I realize that's about as far as I planned. So I say what I've been thinking he must be thinking, "You know, Une sent you to me. I could be one of hers."

I figure, if it's on his mind, we might as well talk about it. I want a partner who knows he can trust me.

"So could I." He says, which isn't exactly the response I was expecting.

"Nah, you already killed him once. Don't figure you'll be joining his team." And I figure I'll maybe get a smile out of him at best, at least a shrug. But he shuts down. His back straightens, his shoulders square, and his face goes blank.

Now the crowd's really avoiding us, people crossing to the other side of the street. He doesn't seem to notice.

"Umm," I say. That doesn't get much out of him so I try again, "Listen, I'm sure no one blames you for the whole not dead thing."

This time he looks over and he does something with his lips that an idiot might call a smile. Me, I keep my hands shoved in my pockets because I don't want him biting my fingers off. He says, "Maxwell, shut up."

Which seems like a good alternative to pissing him off again so I shrug and let myself fall into the silence. It's not silence, though, not really. Ships have this hum to them, it's a noise you feel more than you here. On colonies, it's there too, but it's deeper and subtler. If you're a colony kid, it's just a part of you, and when it's gone you feel it. Different colony, different feel. But after a day or so, you don't notice. That's part of disappearing. It's not being silent; it's being loud in a way that people expect. It's becoming what no one bothers to look at.

By the time we get to the shuttle, people are avoiding Wufei without even glancing at me. He almost forgets about me too, and I almost bump into him when he stops short just inside the shuttle. That shakes us both out of it but he still doesn't say anything. Just shrugs and heads toward the controls. And I think, okay, so I need to apologize. But without knowing where I fucked up, it's a little hard.

The shuttle's small but not so small there isn't a chair for a co-pilot. I settle there while he starts the ship up, stare at the little blinking lights as we pull away from the colony and make our way back into space. The tension leaves him as he flies. Oh, he's still mad, but it's a relaxed sort of angry. I get it. He's left gravity and people behind and now, with space stretching in every direction, he's himself again. Maybe the two of us can get each other after all.

"You know, I'm not a traitor." I say. I'm not sure why. It's just we never really finished that conversation.

He glances over at me. Now that we're away from the colony, the shuttle can pretty much take care of itself. "I know." He says. And there's something there but I can't reach it. Whatever it is, it's dark and cold and it isn't meant for me. I just stumbled across the edge of it somehow. It's sort of a relief. Sometimes, Wufei scares me. "You're not the type."

"Great. Then we're all friends." I unbuckle my harness and let myself float. "So, you gonna tell me what you know or should we play twenty questions?"


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Obviously, it's been a good long while since I updated. There are, of course, the usual apologies and excuses. But I can only say that my updates will continue to be sporadic. I enjoy writing this, I enjoy sharing it with you. But life requires the majority of my attention. Thank you, for your patience, your interest, and of course, your encouragement.

I realize this fic is a bit odd. The brokenness of it, the strange, stream-of-consciousness sort of narrative. I do not ask you to bear with me if the style bothers you. I can only say I will write other fics, that might be more to your taste.

Pairings: 2x5

Warnings: Language, General Darkness

The past is more story than memory. We rewrite, rebuild, recreate. Pick some details and dismiss others. In time, what we believe to be our memory resembles reality only along the edges, in a fuzzy, hopeful way. It's a fancy, clever sort of lying.

I've never been all that good at lying. When I think back to the war, I can't play the game the news does. I can't paint myself a hero. I know what I did, I know the joy I took from those actions. I will always know what I'm responsible for. It makes me wish I could lie. If not for myself, then for the sake of the others. Because I can't do any better for them, allies and enemies alike. To me, Treize will always be a bloodsoaked madman, no matter how the press likes to paint him.

I can tell it's different for Wufei though. As he speaks of what he knows, there's a sort of awe in his voice, hidden beneath the stoic lack of intonation. He's impressed, that Treize has done this, somehow brought himself back from the dead. Me, I'm just angry.

Who might I have been if not for Treize? Maybe someone almost human.

"Listen," I say, because most of what Wufei is explaining is that they know nothing. Nothing that I haven't already seen in the files he gave me. "Lets just go with you don't have a clue what he's done or how the hell he did it and call it a night, alright?"

The interruption cuts Wufei off mid-sentence. But he allows it; his smirk says that he expects this sort of thing from me. A lack of discipline, a lack of interest in the details. I'm projecting. I'm remembering a small room, the stuttering tightness of my lungs as the oxygen thinned. I'm remembering how he looked at me. The look he's giving me now is different. It's also harder to read. I'm intimate with Wufei's anger. This look is more expectation than hate.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I realize I've been staring. "Nah."

He looks concerned. He probably thinks I'm going to compromise the mission. "If you're ill--"

See, what'd I tell you? I consider a couple expressions before settling for patented Duo grin number three, guaranteed to charm and reassure even the most tight assed of Gundam pilots. "Not sick. Just crazy. Probably no worse off than you, though."

His expression tightens, concern narrowing into irritation. He thinks I'm kidding. It'd be nice, wouldn't it? We could be kidding. The war never happened. Or it did, but it left no scars. We are spry, nimble, sane. I don't wake with the painful slowness of an old man, fighting past the pain of old breaks and bullet wounds. I do not scream in the night.

Yes, lets all be fine.

"Listen," I say. "Don't worry about it. If I lose track of who to shoot, you'll be the first person to know."

Lie? It's hard to say. I'm betting he will be the first to know. After all, if I really lose it, he's probably the one I'll be shooting at. That'd be his first clue, I'd think.

"You used to play chess." He says, and I spin the statement round, trying to find somewhere to jam it into the existing conversation. No luck. He is officially the worst Gundam Pilot at segues. I'd give the award to Heero, but when has he ever cared enough to segue?

I want to say, 'huh' but it comes out, "So?" It sounds like a challenge. As if my chess days are some dirty little secret. "It's been awhile." I add, by way of recovery.

Wufei pushes a few buttons on one of the side consuls and the dark screen below it resolves itself into a black and white grid. "White or black?"

I don't want to play chess. I don't want to sit and talk and breathe with him. We are not friends. We were none of us friends. And if it's me and it's Treize both stained with blood, then it's him too. It's everyone who ever piloted one of those goddamned beautiful machines. All sins equal.

Lie, there.

Wufei never took down a ship full of pacifists on false intel. He never handed control of the Alliance to Treize.

Wufei killed Treize. Ran him through.

And now I don't want to play chess with someone who can actually claim to have stood for something. So, there you go. The reason I spend my time in a spaceship, working for Howard and keeping to myself. Can't stand people when I know they're just as bad as me. Or, apparently, people that are better.

"I'll take white then," says Wufei, moving his pawn out.

And it's not as if I even decide to play. I just react. I move a piece because now he's attacking, and I have to respond. Because I can't leave myself undefended.

It occurs to me that Howard is right. I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. I need to shut myself away in a little box somewhere in space, where I can keep track of all the scattered fragments of my mind.

Wufei is moving his rook and I am trying to breathe and there is no air in the room again. I move a knight. He counters.

He's talking and that seems like a bad idea. A waste of air. The words come without definition, a series of sounds but no meaning.

"Duo." That one's familiar. The sound I chose to mean myself. When did he grab my wrist?

I find myself inhaling again, the dry, metallic air filling starved lungs.

I wait for him to speak, for the predictable accusation of weakness. I'm ready to fight it. This insanity is so much less than I deserve. But I can still fight. Put a gun in someone else's hand, point it my way and I do just fine.

What Wufei says, in his usual dry tones, is, "Heero will not sleep in Relena's bed. He says he sleeps too well. He doesn't know what he might sleep through. He has a chair, by the door."

"I just, forget. Sometimes. It's worse. With you. Here." I don't try to find a smile. "No offense."

He doesn't seem to take any. "After we take care of this, I'll see to it that you are left undisturbed. I will not--" he hesitates, "visit."

"That'd be nice." I say. And I'm pretty sure I'm joking, but neither of us smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Not Dead. Funny that. Starting to remember what I enjoy about writing. Hope those of you who have been waiting enjoy this little installment.

Pairing: 2x5

Warnings: Language, Misery. The usual.

They say dreams are the mind's way of sorting things, a reaction to the human need to make sense of a world that never really does. They say if you don't dream, you'll go mad, lose the ability to make logic from chaos, be forced to face a world that simply is, a world that exists without cause and effect.

I think I'd be okay with that. It sounds like a relaxing sort of crazy, a world where everything happens without meaning, where no one is responsible. No forgiveness but no guilt either. Anyway, I'm just sick of dreaming. Sick but not tired because I sleep pretty damn well. Nice restful dreams and by the end of them, everyone's dead but me.

What could be more peaceful than that?

Sleeping on the shuttle is different. Howard sees to it that I've got a room to myself but here, Wufei's on the bunk below me and I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. In my dream, we're back to back. The whole world's burning and he's at my side. He's laughing, like he never laughs in the real world, head tossed back, eyes shining. The laughter becomes something else, a choking, unsteady sound. He's not getting enough oxygen. We can't breath.

I wake gasping to the same chocking noise. Below me, Wufei is shuddering in his sleep, his shadowed form shaking so hard I can feel the reverberations in my own bunk.

It doesn't even take thought. People say you shouldn't wake someone who's having a nightmare. I say those people probably aren't Gundam Pilots. They don't know the kind of nightmares we have. I'm at his side, shaking him, and part of me is thinking he'll kill me before he fully wakes up. The other part, the part that hasn't yet pulled away from my own dreams, is just trying to breath.

Wufei goes from shaking to still in-between one gasp and the next. His hand grabs my wrist in a motion so quick I barely see it. He's awake, but he's not with me, his pupils are dilated and he's looking at me with a numb sort of confusion. I wait, while my fingers start to go numb.

"Sorry, Wufei." I speak slowly, because he's watching my lips, as if the sounds themselves aren't reaching him. "I'm hungry. Where do you keep the snacks?"

And that's not a lie, exactly, because I don't say that's why I woke him. And I am hungry.

His eyes focus. Which is good because, suicidal or no, strangled to death by another Gundam Pilot is not the way I want to go.

At least, not usually.

"Duo," he says.

He hasn't let go of my wrist. By the time he does, I'm going to have lost the use of my left hand.

"Fine, snacks later. I'll go back to sleep." I make a point of moving away, but he still doesn't let go, and we're both staring at the point where his calloused fingers are wrapped around my wrist. Neither of us knows what to say, and he's watching his hand in what seems like fascination, as if he doesn't quite understand how it got there, or why it hasn't moved.

He sits up then, using a little too much force as he stands so that the half-gravity of the room almost sets him stumbling. I say almost, because he's still Wufei, he finds his balance through what looks to be sheer force of will and stands in the dim light, glaring at me. He's not wearing a shirt and his hair is loose around his shoulders. He's angry in a way I understand and beautiful in a way I don't. He's still holding my wrist and, oh yeah, I'm not breathing.

We stand there for longer than we should, him clinging like he can't help it and hating me for it, me trying to remember what air tastes like, and hating myself for it.

"I'm going to make tea," he says. My fingers start to tingle and, oh, he's dropped my wrist. There'll be a bruise there, a dark bracelet of wounded flesh. I rub life back into my fingers and think maybe I don't mind so much.

"Will there be snacks?" I ask, following him.

"Fine." He speaks without looking at me. There's something I'm missing. He's gone hollow, not radiating anger so much as emptiness, and I think maybe the anger would be easier to cope with.

"Most nights, it's the war all over again." I tell him, while he keeps his eyes fixed on what he's doing. "Back in Deathscythe with the whole world trying to kill me."

"Shut-up, Maxwell," he says, and it'd be nice if he sounded irritated, but he just sounds tired. "I'm fine."

I lean against the wall, watching him, metal cool against my skin. He isn't fine, I'm starting to realize. It's easy to get caught up in your own crazy, get lost inside your head and forget that other people might be just as broken. But Wufei's the Boy Scout. He played lone wolf during the war but now he's one of Une's. I guess I figured that meant he was okay, that she would know if he wasn't. Not that she's one to judge the crazy.

"Well, must be fun to be you then." I say it mostly to get a rise out of him, because anger is a comfortable emotion between us. And he tenses, a little, the muscles in his back tightening more than necessary for someone doing nothing more than holding out a cup of tea. "Some of us are proud to be fucked up."

"Are you?" He looks at me for the first time since he gave me back my hand, and whatever is behind those dark eyes, I don't know how to read it.

So I take the cup of tea he hands me and drink deeply from it, scalding my tongue and the back of my throat, a heat I can follow all the way down to the pit of my stomach. I don't even like tea.

"Careful," he says. "It's hot." I think maybe he's laughing at me. Not with his voice or eyes, but somewhere else, in the dim corners of a dream left behind, he throws his head back and laughs.

"I'd noticed," I say and then, well, he doesn't laugh, but he smiles and whatever aching hollowness was filling the room and emptying his expression seems to leave. We aren't friends. Were never friends. But we have been allies. Maybe that means something. "I'm not tired," I tell him, which is true in every way that matters. I can go days without sleep when I need to. "Chess?"


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: This updates a bit short, but at least it exists. For those of you not aware, fandom's doing its best to come together in support of the victims of the earthquake and tsunami. Help_japan is one LJ community doing so. And I'm taking part. I'm auctioning fanfic, as are many others. You can find my offering under the user name 'harunokaze'. If you'd like me to write something, or continue something, this is your chance. And if you'd like someone else to write something, there's that option to. If you've got the cash, bid on something. Or just contribute to the red cross directly. This is important and we all need to do what we can to help.

There's this whole proud mythology around war wounds. People call scars badges of honor, as if getting shot and managing not to bleed to death is something to be proud of. Me, I'm not proud of much. But I'll tell you this about war wounds. They hurt. Not the gentle ache of memory but real pain; pain that echoes every breath, every motion. I don't remember what it was like not to hurt, though I like to believe there was a time when I was still whole.

I won't say sane. There are some things beyond imagining.

Here's my point. We're in range of the earth. Wufei's at the controls and I'm sitting next to him, just watching. I always forget how beautiful it is. I make a point of it, really. Top of the checklist for leaving Earth is 'forget how beautiful it is'. Endless trees and wide expanses of ocean make it difficult to enjoy the sterile simplicity of the colonies. Watching as the details come into focus, I'm thinking about is how unscarred it looks. So much of the war took place in space for all that the Earth was cause and reason. From this distance, it looks untouched.

Does it feel the ache anyway? Do the bones of the Earth still throb with old aches? Does it stretch and find its surface pulls at the site of old explosions?

I want it to hurt. I shouldn't have to be the only one that hurts.

But am I? Wufei, standing in the faint light, his fingers locked around my wrist. I trace the bruise.

What memories hunt him? What badly healed bones and mangled muscles remind him of what he's done? I'm not sure I want to know.

Lie, there.

I'm afraid to ask. For the moment, I can imagine that he's something like me. I can paint him into my shadow. We can both be wounded and, if he doesn't carry my sins, maybe he carries his own. We spent little enough time together during the war. Who knows what he might have done in the name of this thing we now call peace? I find I need to believe that. There's no danger of lying when the truth is unknown. So long as Wufei remains half a stranger, he can be something of a fantasy.

"You should sleep," he says.

Neither of us has slept since I woke him. We played three games of chess and two of go. Somehow, he managed to win more than half without ever meeting my eyes. He's still doing it, his dark gaze fixed on blues and greens of the screen, though it doesn't need much attention. I know this game. It's about showing weakness. It's about the bruise on my wrist. He needs to be strong and I'm desperate for some sign of weakness.

When he stood in the dark with his hair loose on his bare skin, I thought maybe we could understand each other. Now he's a wall. No, a mirror. He reflects my own madness back without offering anything of himself. He wants me to sleep. He thinks I need it. He thinks I'm broken.

I am. But I've been broken long enough to live within the wound. Long enough to know what sleep will do to me, when I'm reminding myself every few minutes what air is.

I don't say 'I'm fine' or 'I'm not tired'. I've cut my hair but there are some pieces of my past I can't bring myself to discard. So I say, "No. I shouldn't."

He glances over without turning his head, his eyes on my wrist instead of my face. He looks so tired. "Fine."

This isn't right. There was a moment when I thought I knew him. And maybe that's the worse thing I could say about someone but it's true. And if I can't have that back, then I need to forget it. I need him cold, untouchable, angry. Hung between the two, I'm left dizzy and, yes, breathless. But that's alright. No one's supposed to breathe when they're hanging.

"I can't." I say. "It's you. They've made Heero out as the perfect soldier and maybe he is. I mean, what a sick thing to call someone. But I always thought you were the best of us."

He tenses. If he were standing, he'd be in a fight stance. As it is, he strokes his gun. It'd be funny, to be shot for this. I should stop talking. That's not something I was ever good at.

"Or the worst, maybe. Justice? Honor?" Those words he'd held so close, like they meant something. Now, he's looking at me. Now, I'm the one watching the screen, refusing to see his eyes. "Ideals will get you killed. Trowa and Heero knew that. And Quatre, well, you saw what it did to him. I don't know why it didn't do the same to you."

"And truth?" he asks.

"Truth'll kill you. But it does it slow."

He's still watching me, I can feel it. There's plenty of noise but it's silent between us. I turn. I don't want to, but I need some image of him that isn't all anger and beauty and dark. He's studying me, with a look that's half guilt, half worry, and a hell of a lot of fear. I can't think of anything I've said that might scare him, but war taught me well enough to read fear on a man's face. Even a face as calm and careful as Wufei's. I almost like the other image better.

"That isn't who I am," he speaks slowly and somehow that makes the words all the more forceful. "I was never good. None of us were. You're a fool if you think I'm any different."

"You're an idiot if you think we're the same," I say. And isn't that funny? Because here I am arguing against what I was all but ready to beg for.

"We did what we had to do."

"No," I say, and the words feel thick and sweet on my tongue, "Maybe you did. But I did what I wanted to do."

His expression goes blank and that's more than I can deal with. I stand and he doesn't stop me.

"I should sleep," I say.

What do I want from him? I want his fingers, bruising my wrist. I want him to stop me. He doesn't and that's good. I'm always wanting things I shouldn't. It hurts but, like I said, so does everything.


	6. Interlude 1

Author's note: I'm afraid this is a bit of a bait and switch. But the bit about chess kept sticking in my mind and it wasn't the sort of thing I thought this Duo would know. It was a Wufei thing. And so, a Wufei chapter.

I do believe this is the most stable Wufei I've ever written. Which, frankly, isn't saying much.

Also, please note that the number that I give in regards to the number of atoms in the observable universe is wrong. It's actually between 10^79 and 10^81. I've changed it because I believe a time with space colonies would probably have a wider range of 'observable' universe.

Dedication: Kymanlvr, you got me thinking about Like Oxygen again. Thank you.

Interlude One: Beauty at a Distance

Perspective. A valuable quality. It is important to remember the smallness of things.

For example, it's generally accepted that the number of atoms in the observable universe is between 10^100 and 10^105. That there is even so wide a range is rather staggering, an undeniable testament to humanity's ignorance.

Now, by contrast, we know quite precisely that the number of possible legal games of chess is 10^120.

And so, on one side of the scale we place the universe. On the other, a chess board. And the chess board weighs heavier.

What then, is the earth? One small blue planet which spat humanity out into a universe that offers nothing. Is there life elsewhere? How could we ever be sure? The space between us and the next potentially inhabited planet is unimaginable. Even in our lighter than a chessboard universe we can not reach so far as that. Instead, humanity clings to Earth, longs for Earth. In the colonies, they try desperately to replicate what they have lost.

And so Earth becomes the center, the symbol, the only important thing. And humanity elevates it, worships it, and loses any sense of perspective.

But Duo is asleep when we land. If he feels the same secret longing the rest of humanity does, he hides it behind that stare of his. Part shell-shock, part battle-madness, his gaze holds so much of the war it washes away the present. When I meet his eyes, I'm in my Gundam again, with all the power and pain that implies.

I had to learn what it meant to be alive, after the war. None of us expected to survive, I think. Didn't we all try to die in service to the demons that drove us? Finding ourselves real, if not whole, when it ended, wasn't something we'd trained for. But humanity is even better at surviving than it is at killing itself, if only marginally so. I adapted. We all did. But only, as I said, marginally.

As we step off the ship, Duo breathes in, slow and deep. It's a sound I've begun to associate him. He tests the air, expecting it to betray him. I understand. Perhaps I'm the only one that does. It's not my demon. I was ready for that particular death. But I understand.

It's hot outside, a thick sticky heat that's unique to Earth. In the colonies, the weather is never unpleasant. It varies, mostly in service to agriculture necessity, but 105 degrees with 85% humidity isn't something plants crave so in the colonies the weather is never so hostile. The air is almost chewable and Duo's breathing is unsteady, each inhale coming sharper than the last.

I turn to look at him. He's standing by the hanger, his gaze fixed on the sky, his hands clenched into fists. There's a ring of bruised flesh around one of his wrists, the mark of the debt that rests uncomfortably between us. He was there when I needed him. I would have weathered the dreams without him. But he was there. He took me from them; offered distraction when the war was closer than it'd been in over a year.

His eyes bring it back.

But it was him, his voice, his wrist, his queen taking my rook, that brought me back. We both know it.

He's staring at the sky, studying the blue veil that hides the truth of space from us. He looks like he wants to pick a fight. And he's breathing like whatever fight he's picking, he's on the losing end.

"Duo," I grab him by the shoulder, shake him roughly. Something was breached between us last night. It is both easier to touch him now and so much harder.

Why did I volunteer for this?

Treize would have been enough. When Une slid that photo across the table to me, I knew I would be part of the effort to take him down. Treize and I are not meant to live simultaneously. He made me the weapon of his death and so I will be again, should it be necessary.

Normally, I would have simply waited on base for whatever partner was found suitable for the assignment. I'd done it before and, despite my reputation, had even enjoyed working with some of them.

But that partner was Duo. So I went to get him myself. We almost died together once. Of course, we were both in the habit of almost dying at the time. Probability decreed our simultaneous demises as likely. And, yet-

"Duo!"

This time he hears. He blinks, inhales a full breath, and focuses on me. His eyes lock on mine and I allow it. He's seeing something that isn't there, I think. He still thinks I'm the boy who fought the war, running on pain and half-developed philosophy. Whatever he sees, it steadies him.

"I haven't been on Earth since the peace," he says. He doesn't want to be here now. Neither do I.

I'm still gripping his shoulder and he doesn't shrug off my hand. In the warm light of a true sun he looks younger, gentler, as if this world is trying to remake him into what it believes him to be. But the truth is there in the fierce hurt of his eyes. It seems that even his body refuses to be used in a lie.

He takes a step toward me and I still haven't let go of him. His breathing has eased a little, but it's still overly controlled, a little desperate.

"I have to be here frequently," I say, as if it's the conversation that matters.

He takes another half-step forward, eating up what remains of the room between us. Now my breathing is as careful as his. He reaches up and puts his hand over mine. His grip is tight enough to be painful. Carefully, as if he's handling a weapon he returns my hand to my side and releases it.

"I think you might kill me," he says in a vague, dreamy tone. "It's about time someone did."

And then he's walking away.


	7. Chapter 6

Author's Note:

I don't know whether or not this will be my last chapter. Those of you who have followed this story for some time know how irregularly I update. Between this update and the last, I broke my arm, among other things. But the important bit is I've got things in my life that I'm trying to focus on and this fanfic isn't one of them.

That said, I don't intend to abandon this project, even if it's not going anywhere. It's nice to have something to play with now and again. But, seeing how now and again is already something like 'once a year' I guess what I'm trying to say is don't get your hopes up that this will make it to the grand finale.

So. Umm. I'll see you next time. Unless I don't.

Pairings: 2X5

Warnings: Language, references to suicide, references to strangulation. Extremely unhappy, broken people. The usual.

Normal is in the small things. Oh, it's in the big things too, don't get me wrong. When you start screaming and talking to yourself that's the sort of not normal that warns people it might be time to take you to a place where the walls are pastel and everyone speaks in soft voices. But there are cracks before the breaking, little failures, small pieces of strangeness that people dismiss and forget. Small deviations from easy norms. That's what I'd look for, if I was trying to decide who'd snap next.

Wufei lives in a tomb. We don't go straight to Une, like I expected. No, apparently the Lady isn't expecting us until tomorrow, and for reasons I think have more to do with the bruise on my wrist than the rules Wufei recites with mechanical precision, it's been decided that I'm to crash at his place until she's ready for us.

He lives in a tomb.

It's a small apartment, a studio in what old instincts tell me is the better side of town. There's no couch. There's no table. There's a desk with a computer, a pallet in the corner, and nothing else. Not even the books I thought would be lining the walls, though I spot one beside his pallet. The walls are white, the floor is white, the ceiling is white. The air tastes clean and untested; I expected the lingering smell of incense.

We step inside and take off our shoes. There are clever comments to be made, compliments on his taste in furniture and questions on whether Heero helped him

decorate. I don't ask them.

He doesn't explain.

We stand in the silence of his empty house and I think that the shuttle was more welcoming. Maybe it's more home than this. My bunk on Howard's ship is full of junk. I like things. Not in a 'must have' sort of way. But I figure, if I die, and they go to clean out my bunk, they'll know someone lived there.

They'll know I lived there.

No one, coming here, will even know Wufei existed.

The air is so very clean. I can smell the reek of my own sweat and the gunpowder and oil smell that both of us carry. He sits on the floor. There's nowhere else to sit.

We haven't talked since landing. Oh, we've exchanged information, but we haven't talked. Earth drags at the words, gives them weight and we are already exhausted by carrying ourselves.

I tell him I want to take a shower, and he shows me the closet with the towels. Content without communication, like two machines exchanging instructions.

I set the water as hot as I can stand it, which, consequently, is as hot as it gets. It hurts, the peculiar, icy burn of extreme heat. I make myself stay under the stream, breathing in the thick steam and when I'm sure that I am stronger than my own desire for self-preservation, when I've proved once again that I am better than my own pain, I turn the heat back down.

He's reading the book when I walk back into the living room. I hope it's a good one. I wonder if he'll change it out when he's done or if he's decided to read the same book, forever.

Normal is in the small things. It's in buying a couch. That's what normal people do. They buy couches. They decorate.

Why can't we even try to be normal?

"Fuck," I say.

He looks up without answering. We are in his home and he is tense with violent energy. He was calmer in space, waking up from a screaming sleep.

"You're crazier than I am." I stretch out on the floor, leaving a few feet of space between us.

"I won't be here long," he says. Our eyes meet and all I see is death. "The job requires moving."

Lie, there. Or truth like a curtain, pulled across what he doesn't wish me to see. As if he could hide it from me. I see you now, Wufei. There's no place to hide in this empty room. How often does he crave it? Does he know what death tastes like yet? Has he kissed the barrel of a gun, if only for the foreplay?

"Can't you even try?" I ask. "Buy a plant or something."

"No one sees this place."

That's true. Even he doesn't see this place. "A bonsai, maybe."

"Chess?" There is nothing in his voice.

"Fuck chess." I'm sick of playing war. If we're going to fight I want blood and fists. I want the taste of him. I bet he tastes like a gun.

He looks around the room, like he's seeing it for the first time. He smiles and the expression surprises me. It's the wry, bitter smile of the defeated. I know it well enough, from reflections and muscle memory. It doesn't fit his face. "I've never brought anyone here before."

"I thought-" Words fail me and I gesture, grasping at the air, trying to catch them again. I thought he was better than me. Broken, yeah, but not shattered. Not ground into powder, waiting on the wind. "What do you do?"

"I work. The peace is more fragile than people like to admit."

"Fuck. Don't spout the madwoman's lines at me."

"What do you want, Duo?"

I want to die. I want him to be better than me, to be worse off than I am. I want to trash this goddamned white room.

I remember him studying Gundam upgrades while we died. I thought he was strong, that they could kill him and not break him. Maybe all they had to do was take the war away.

If he can't make it, if he hides in this cell with death in his eyes, why am I even trying to breathe?

Am I breathing? I can't tell. The room gets brighter, swimming, white on white on white. I can't tell if I'm looking at the ceiling or the walls.

"Duo!" Wufei's leaning over me, shaking me. It's hard to see him through the bright sparks of white. I try. Yeah, that's him, his hands on my shoulders and if he moved them just a bit they'd be around my neck.

I put my hand on his chest, ignoring the heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall as his lungs inflate. He doesn't pull away and I slide my other hand up to his throat, just holding it there, fingers circling his neck, no pressure. It's impossible not to feel his pulse, the throb of his carotid artery against my skin. He licks his lips and swallows. I feel that too.

Does he think I'll kill him? Could I? Would he let me?

I slide my hand around to the back of his neck, applying just enough pressure to show him what I want without forcing the issue.

He doesn't taste like a gun and I don't know whether or not I'm disappointed. He tangles his fingers into my hair and I tug at the rubber band in his until it falls loose around his shoulders.

God, he really is beautiful. Like fire is beautiful. Like dying is beautiful.

He kisses my neck and I tilt my head back for him, feel his teeth graze my trachea.

I would let him kill me.

"Tell me to stop," he says. His hands are hot as he slides them under the shirt I just put on. One of his, loose on me.

I tug him up by his hair, kissing him again. He doesn't taste like a gun but he kisses like a war. "Fuck you."

"Something like that."

But he laughs, and the laugh is like a hammer, shattering the moment. I start to laugh too, sitting up, gasping with amusement that has nothing to do with what either of us have said. We lean against each other, just for the support, and every time our eyes meet, we start up again. It's hysteria, but so's what came before. This isn't love or lust. It's magnetism, my madness just different enough to be drawn to his.

I wonder when it'll happen again.


	8. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Well, we've made it to the next chapter. A sincere thank you to those who've left comments. You guys are the best, I really appreciate your willingness to enjoy these little fragments without putting too much pressure on me. I don't think I could do this if the weight of guilt was hanging over my head. I only got to this one because I had a bit of free time and wanted to do something fun. I hope you guys enjoy it. I fear that it's following the pattern of being a little darker than the previous chapter. At this rate, I'm going to get to the point where I can just write deathdeathdeathdeath for about a thousand words and call it good.

On the bright side, it features a special guest appearance from one of my favorite GW characters.

Pairing: 2x5, references to 1xR

Warnings: References to suicide and violence. Language. General depressing content.

There are things people don't talk about when they're trying to be polite. Money. Politics. Religion. At least, that's what they tell me.

Maybe I understand it. Those are the subjects where the hooks are deepest, the bits people are patched together from. If I wanted to build myself from scratch, those are the materials I'd have to use.

Money: Life on the streets, hungry and desperate. Learning in life you either take or are taken, either do damage or are damaged.

Religion: The orphanage. Finding new values, like truth and faith. But the new doesn't replace the old, it stands beside it.

Politics: The war. Deathscythe. Learning to die.

But who am I kidding? If I could form a man of dust and breath, it wouldn't be myself. I'm not that much of a bastard.

Point is, polite isn't really something I'm made for. After we meet Une and get our marching orders, Wufei and I grab lunch at a noodle shop in his neighborhood. He's still a master of the stoic silence thing; he eats without even seeming to see me. Since last night, he's gotten good at not looking at me. We're sitting across from each other, but he's fixed his gaze on my right shoulder like there's an essay about honor printed on the fabric.

Lie, there, though one of perception. He is not the caricature I have built of him.

"She was psycho before," I say. "Who says she changed?"

Technically, I'm talking war. But with us, what else is there?

Well, I guess we could talk about whether or not we're going to fuck.

But that's the war too, isn't it?

Sometimes, I want him like I want a gun in my mouth. Sometimes, I want him like oxygen.

Save me. Damn me. Forgive me. Punish me.

What was I saying about religion?

He sits there, staring at my shoulder and I don't know if I want him to slit my throat or kiss it.

Worse, I don't know if there's a difference.

"I don't know that she has," he says. I have already forgotten what we're talking about. "But we have to follow the evidence, regardless. And her plan seems solid."

Right. Une. Our plan to ship out to a nearby colony that might be where weapons are being funneled to Treize. Treize who is dead. Treize, who thought he could treat humanity like a dog, rubbing our face in a carpet soiled with blood, warning us not to do it again.

If he's alive, does he understand what he's really created? The hunger in me to tear it all down, to breathe in the smoke and silence of a city gone to ashes. When everything else is gone, I'll know it's safe to breathe.

"Just so long as we're getting off this damn planet," I say.

He nods, and I don't know if it's agreement or just acknowledgement. We've finished eating, there's nothing left for us to do but head back to his apartment and pack. His ship'll be restocked and ready before noon tomorrow. If I had my way, we'd be taking off tonight.

We don't play chess. The board doesn't provide enough neutral territory. Instead, he retreats to his desk and I do sit-ups on the other side of the room. We don't talk, pretending we can't see each other.

Not talking gives me too much time to think. I return, again and again, to the feeling of his teeth on my throat, the warm flutter of his pulse under my fingers. I don't know if I'm afraid touching him again will kill me, or if I'm afraid it won't.

Around seven, there's a knock at the door.

I look at Wufei and see he has his gun trained on the door. The cool metal of mine is comfortable in my hand. I don't remember reaching for it. I never do.

If it's the pizza man, he's about to have a bad day.

A second knock. This time, I recognize the fearless expectation in that rhythm.

"Relena," I say.

Wufei nods and opens the door. Can't leave the queen of the world waiting.

She steps inside and I look for Heero in her shadow, but see only two large body guards, who she sheds on the doorstep like a pair of shoes.

"Duo!" Her voice, warm and sweet, lacks the note of innocence I once heard there. Of all of us, she's grown the most. Maybe she's the only one who grew, while the rest of us just broke into smaller pieces. "I heard you were on planet."

I sweep her into my arms because she's maybe the one thing on the planet I don't want to see broken. Wufei doesn't hug, but they exchange bows, and I can see the respect there. I wonder at the story, they didn't always get along. But it doesn't matter. She is a sun we can safely orbit, without worrying about colliding into each other.

"You come all the way here just to see me, Princess?" I ask, trying to tease a laugh from her.

She nods. "I only have a few minutes but I didn't want to miss you." I'm surprised enough that I let her keep talking. "I just wanted to thank you for agreeing to help."

Oh. Right. It's the recruitment talk. Une tried it too. "Just for this mission. And only because Wufei's promised me I get to kill Treize this time. I figure we all deserve a turn. You can be next."

She smiles, an expression that rivals Wufei's for controlled bitterness. "I'm the peaceful one, remember? If I see him, I have to shake his hand and ask him how he's been."

"Well, I'll kill him extra for you."

She laughs and I'm grateful for the sound. "I promised Heero I'd remind you that we need you here. We do need you here. He misses you, you know."

I can't lie. I wonder if there's a nice way to tell her I'm afraid I'll kill half the population of Earth if I try to stay here. I don't get a chance to find one.

"Relena, stop." Wufei's been leaning against the wall, watching the conversation. But he steps forward, putting himself between us. "He's not staying."

They lock gazes and I expect Wufei to back down. She is his boss, in a way. Instead, she frowns and looks at me over his shoulder. Her expression gentles, showing a little of the girl she was, and she shakes her head.

"You can't blame me for trying," she says. "I should go."

Her aura fades quickly and we are ourselves again. I can't help but playact with her. I think Relena is the only person who looks at me and sees someone good. For Relena, I lie, because for the brief confusion of her visit, the lie felt like a truth.

Wufei returns to his desk but I can't deal with the silence anymore. I lean against the desk and he stops typing, looking up at me.

"What's she see in Heero, do you think?" I ask. I've got my own theories, but Wufei's supposed to be the thoughtful one.

He doesn't do his thoughtful thing. Instead, he smirks. "I always assumed Relena had a masochistic streak."

There's a second of laughter. The sound, our voices mingling, brings back the night before, tightening the moment. The air thickens. I count breaths, reminding myself that this is Earth. They don't run out of air here.

He meets my eyes for the first time all day. I think I liked it better when he had a thing for my shoulder. Our hands are about a foot apart, his gun sits between them. I spread my fingers, just to feel the cool brush of metal.

If I reached for it, would he stop me?

"No." I say. "He'd never hurt her. She probably gets him to cuddle."

"Most likely," he says.

I push away from the desk, crossing back to my side of the room.

Because we aren't Heero and Relena.

If we touch, it will be to tear each other to pieces.

And as much as I want to be torn, I'm not ready to hurt him.

Lie, there. Hurting him would be fine. But I don't want his death on my hands.

And if I started, I don't think I'd be able to stop.


	9. Chapter 8

Authors note: This is it. For real this time. I just finished the third draft of a novel and also got accepted into the writing program of my dreams. And that's where I want to put my focus. I'm not saying I'll never write fanfic again. I'm sure I will. But I didn't like leaving this project hanging, especially since my reason for leaving it so was mostly fear. So here's the last chapter. Here's me writing the closest thing to a sex scene I've ever written. It's short, I'm afraid. And it doesn't resolve the whole 'Treize is back' plot. I fear I've failed miserably at writing a mission fic. But I had fun with this. I hope you did, too.

Pairings: 2x5

Warnings: The usual misery and suicidal references. Also sex, though nothing really graphic. No naughty parts were mentioned in the crafting of this fic.

Here's what you need to know about us.

We aren't gentle. We aren't sweet. We aren't even right.

There is nothing worse for us than each other.

This isn't a romance; its suicide-by-proxy.

You want to know what he tastes like, when it finally happens? When we're on the shuttle together and there's nowhere left for us to hide except inside each other?

He tastes like gunpowder. Like smoke. He tastes like being alive, like dying, and more than anything else, like taking a life.

Wufei tastes like murder and he's the best thing I've ever put my mouth on. Better than any gun I ever kissed.

Here's the thing about oxygen. It's poison. Yeah. We need it to live, but we don't take it in pure. Too much, for long enough, the stuff will kill you.

I drink him straight, my Oxygen. I study him by starlight. Battle-hardened and elegant with eyes the color of space. I run my fingers over his skin, just to feel him shiver. I lick his scars, seeking the places where war marked him, and leaving marks of my own. His long fingers, tangled in my short hair, make me wish I had more left for him to pull. He's selfish and rough and I come harder than I ever have. When he hisses my name, it's as much accusation as it is need. When I scream his, it's a warcry.

We belong together like a bullet belongs to a gun. Like a gundam pilot belongs to a gundam.

Like a child belongs to a war.

And I know, as I lay beside him, both of us bruised and sated, that it won't last. Maybe he'll kill me, or I'll kill him, or we'll set the world on fire like I know we both want to.

But until then, until we fall, I bury my face against his neck, and I breathe deep.


End file.
